


It All Goes Apace

by neverlandlumos



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Arranged Marriage, Daughter of Dain, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-03
Updated: 2013-07-17
Packaged: 2017-12-13 08:19:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/822082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neverlandlumos/pseuds/neverlandlumos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When the letter arrives mid-week, the penmanship unrecognisable with the crest of Oakenshield is stamped neatly on the back, her interest was considerably sparked. An offering of marriage and Queenship in one, she leaves the comfort of the Iron Hills and becomes the wife she didn't know she wished to be. On Hiatus.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is quite unlike anything I've ever written, so I'm very hesitant about posting it. Hopefully, you like it.
> 
> neverlandlost.tumblr.com

\--

Dálnia, daughter of Dáin, is due to be married.

She received the letter mid-week, her father's assistant bounded up to her while she was busy crafting, banishing the letter about as though it was made of gold. She did not recognise the penmanship, the loops and swirls foreign, though the crest of Oakenshield stamped to the back gave its sender away.

The front was bare except her name, _Dálnia_ , the envelope thick. Her interest was sparked considerably. She knew little of the great king of Erebor, besides the hearty tales of dragon-slaying and his well renowned tactical ideas regarding warfare.

The letter is not personalised, and was not written by the King himself, rather by his advisor, clearly stated as Balin, son of Fundin. A proposal of marriage, her hand to be requested if she wishes, offering Queenship and husband in one. She is aware Thorin remains unwed, surprising some, and alas, with the rightful king upon his throne, his duties to continue his line can no longer be ignored.

She thinks to the possible candidates who have also been acknowledged, and contacted. Dwarf arranged marriage is not uncommon, and over time, genuine love can blossom between the selected parties. She is no fool. She is older than any other royal lass from any other kingdom Erebor would deem worthy. Thorin is written here to be aged one ninety five, older than herself, though a margin that could be ignored.

Dálnia herself is one fifty three, and can imagine Thorin would be far more interested in herself, at her age, than any other lass, their years barely reaching one hundred. Her mother birthed her young, an extraordinary gap lay between her and her youngest siblings. Perhaps, her father encouraged such a letter upon his daughter when he realised she sought no interest in a husband herself.

She returns to her chambers, and finds her father waiting for her. He looks skittish, confirming her suspicions he played a role in this courtship.

"Father," she greets, "I trust you know of this," she holds the letter up, alongside its envelope.

Dáin looks at it briefly, then nods, "I did. I trust you will consider this."

"Why?" She asks, opening the latch and stepping inside her chambers. "You and Thorin Oakenshield do not require a marriage of trust."

"No," Dáin agrees, "No, we do not. Still, an opportunity for you to become Queen, a wife and mother, if you wish. Thorin is a good man, darling."

Dálnia raises an eyebrow, "Indeed? Does this explain his behaviour during the reclamation of Erebor?"

Dáin lingers near the door, despite her invitation to take a seat.

"He was ill in the mind, Dálnia. He is a better man, now. A wife such as yourself would do him much good."

She peers over the letter for a moment, placing it on the table and pouring herself a cup of tea, "I will consider it, father."

Dáin steps forward and presses a kiss to her forehead, and leaves. She stares after him for a long minute. Does her father think of her as lonely? She could easily have married many years ago if she wished, her crafts require much attention, leaving little time for wooing young men or beginning the various stages of courtship.

Her eyes linger on the back of the letter, a different hand has written the last note here, she did not notice this before. From Thorin, she realises, and reads it several times over, weighing her options closely. It has been a long time since she dabbled in pleasures of the flesh, and the thought of wedlock brings forth a startling longing for it, alongside the obvious; companionship, unlimited craft.

She walks over to the full body mirror located in her bed chamber and peers at her reflection thoughtfully, tugging at a braid, dragging the full amount of her hair over one shoulder. The locks are long, their length reaches the small of her back when untied and undecorated. She carts a hand through the chestnut brown strands, following their curl at the bottom. Bearded, but not heavily so, a gentle scruff adorns her cheeks, framing her face but leaving no room for jewels or beads.

Filtering through her garments proves tiresome, she notes with a small smile she has already subconsciously agreed to Thorin's offer as she lays her most detailed dresses and overcoats over the expanse of her bed. Fond of green, she holds a corset to her breast in contemplation, picking at the finer laces neatly crafted at its back. She wore the dress when she was much younger, and kept it out of sentimental value, a gift from her mother, noting the bodice will require some alteration, the bust line is slight, far to small for her very healthy bosom.

Dálnia hangs the corset and matching shifts on a hanger to be admired, her maid interrupts her progress with a knowing smile, though silent, backing away with a bow after she requests a seamstress stop by, no doubt ready to babble to her father that she has seen Dálnia in the process of packing some of her items.

As she retires to bed for the evening, she reads the small note Thorin personally left her by candlelight.

_Dálnia,_

_A truly forward request, indeed, though I hope you will give it some thought._  
 _Come to Erebor, see me, talk to me, then decide._  
 _I wish for you to be my wife, either you or none.  
_ _I'm certain you will be comfortable here._

_Thorin_

\--

She is informed of the more personal details of Thorin's life, everything from his command, his sister-sons who are named his heirs, to the downright tragic events that have befallen upon his most dear.

Thror, his grandfather, beheaded.

Dimtila, his mother, lost after childbirth, bearing her third child, her only daughter, Dís.

Thrain, his father, declared dead, though apparently captured, tortured, and died some years later.

Frerin, his brother, slain in battle alongside many of Erebor's greatest, laid to rest at age forty eight. 

She is stunned when she learns all of this, even amazed Thorin has the strength to stand tall, bear the deepest of his people's troubles and trudge along, and if anyone deserves their kingdom, it is he.

The persons of the Blue Mountains remained entirely devoted to their King, and most, if not all of his people now reside alongside him in Erebor.

She is also told that they once met, though she was too young to remember him. A child, she was, and Thorin was still quite young himself, stricken with grief as he came to her father for assistance and guidance. Dáin taught him well, though Thorin's troubles ran far too deep for comfort, only time could ease the ache of loss in his heart.

Today, Dálnia wanders through the marketplaces, for no reason at all, and takes a seat near a playground frequently visited by families. She eats her lunch alone, observing the sights around her that make the Iron Hills, lost in thought, when she sees it.

A young Dwarfling and his mother enjoy their time together, laughing and giggling in equal parts. The mother places her son in the seat, locking him in securely, pushing him in the swing with increasing vigour as the boy delightfully shrieks and giggles as he gains height, legs flailing around.

Dálnia stares - does she want a child? Will she be a good mother, should Thorin wish to have a child? Like so many women of their kind, bearing a child can often bring forth sentimental and maternal wishes, even if she enjoys her craft terribly so, and inevitably, having a child would halt such hobbies.

"Mama!" The boy cries, gorgeously happy, "Love you, Mama!"

She feels torn by the scene before her, and hastily leaves before she can deliberate any longer.

\--

Erebor is breathtaking, indeed, and remains true to its rumours and reputation. The Kingdom is terribly fierce, a dutiful stronghold. The Dwarf soldiers cast out of stone along the sides are easily seen from afar, their detail is astounding up close. Dáin greets the guards companionably, seemingly recognising some of the Dwarves amongst the unfamiliar faces. She feels scrutinised, though it is not unjust.

"Call for the King!" A young guard yells, and two Dwarves step out of their neat formation and scurry backward to the Kingdom. She watches them go.

Balin, as he introduces himself, steps forward and greets her father, bowing slightly, despite her father's attempts to stop him. Dálnia smiles at him, warmly, flattered when he bows entirely.

"Dáin, my friend," a deep, gruff voice says from her left, startling her. She whips her head up, and splutters.

Surely, _surely_ , this is not the King -

"Thorin," her father taps his forehead with his own, "Good to see you again. My daughter," he gestures to her with a jerk of his head, "Dálnia. You would remember her as a child."

Thorin is _gorgeous_ , she can't help but stare at him like a love struck tween, eyes greedily taking in the sight of him, his long black hair splattered with grey, strong, muscular arms bulging against the sleeves of his shirt. His teeth are perfectly straight, white like ivory.

"Indeed. Welcome to Erebor, Dálnia," he says, softly, grasping her hand and kissing the top of it. Oh, dear, handsome and gentlemanly. She notes with a jolt that perhaps she will not be experiencing much hardship should she become his wife. She shakes out of such thoughts - she just arrived here, Mahal above, and is already wilting under his gaze.

"H-hello," she manages, her father covers a snort of laughter with a small cough.

Thorin smiles at her, broadly, and her cheeks heat, "You have aged beautifully."

A young Dwarf snickers behind Thorin, dressed in fur, resembling his princelihood. His eldest heir, then. She's certain she resembles a tomato, though not out of embarrassment, but genuine appreciation.

"Thank you," she says quickly, tucking a strand of hair behind an ear, "thank you."

"Travelled well, then?" Thorin asks, releasing her hand and using his own to guide their small party into the Kingdom. Dáin answers for her, though she is glad for it, happy to take in the beauty Erebor has to offer. She notices many dwarves stand by the sidelines, watching the King greet their visitors with piqued interest.

"Our King is to marry, is he not?" She overhears, "Dáin's daughter is to become our Queen!"

\--

They are seated next to each other, as expected, the food laid out before them is generous and hearty. She has a decent appetite, bothering none with suppressing her own hunger. Thorin says little despite the abundant conversation around them, she figures it's simply who he is, reserved and still.

"Erebor is a delight," she says, smiling as he refills her glass of ale, "You've wasted no time with the rebuild."

"Nay, it has not taken long," he agrees, forking a piece of sausage, "Skilled Dwarves were eager to offer their services."

Dálnia nods, "And now your advisors wish for you to find a wife."

"An expected conversation, indeed," Thorin says, turning and holding her gaze. "I sincerely hope you will consider my offer."

"I have," she tells him, "And I will."

Thorin opens his mouth to speak, but is cut off by another, a woman, who settles an arm atop Thorin's shoulder. Their resemblance is striking, and gathers she is to meet his sister, no doubt the very same who mothers his heirs, Fili and Kili.

"My sister, Dís," Thorin introduces, and Dís smiles.

"Lovely to meet you," Dálnia says, and although she is no quivering lass to be intimidated, Dís carries an air about her similar to that of her brother, strong and unyielding. Their vivid blue eyes match like no other.

Dís quells her thoughts with her kind eyes, "And you, Dálnia. Thank you for coming today. I was worried, perhaps, my brother's reputation runs too fearsome to entice a wife."

Thorin remains silent, though his eyes are sharp, taking in every flicker of expression that shows upon her face. Worry, maybe, that Dálnia will decline his offer, even as she has travelled some distance which should indicate a heavy interest in her part.

She laughs, softly, "I will not say his reputation is poorly," Thorin smiles at this, "I have made my interest quite apparent."

Dís raises her eyebrows, and opens her mouth to speak, when Thorin cuts her off. 

"Dálnia," he interrupts, softly, "Perhaps we could talk more privately."

Dís tuts at her brother, only relenting when Thorin stands and offers Dálnia his hand. She accepts, her palm though calloused and work strained, feels unmarked and smooth in his own. She squeezes their conjoined hands together, despite herself. They walk together, hand in hand, and he leads her to a far smaller dining area connected to the main chambers.

\--

"What is it that you craft?" Thorin asks as they sit, pouring glasses of ale, sorting through the biscuits on the platter. The room, easily seen to be less frequently used, is still detailed accordingly, the archways that lead to the main halls of Erebor are jewelled. She smirks softly, remembering for later that if she is ever lost, follow the decorated door frames.

"Metal, nothing special," she says, reaching into her hair and pulling one of the many head clasps from her main braid, laying it in her palms and showing him an example of her work. He takes it from her and runs a fingertip over the engravings with practised ease, a startling reminder to her that he has not always lived in the bask of Kingship and has worked tirelessly to rebuild the lives of so many of their people. She feels an unexpected wave of affection for him, despite his reserved exterior.

"It is very nice," he compliments, "Not many consider metal alone to be worthy of jewellery."

"Quite true," she agrees, placing the headpiece back in its place, "I do like a challenge."

"Indeed?" Thorin asks with a quirk of his lip, barely disguised behind his mug as he takes a sip. She blushes at whatever implication her mind provides, good grief - are they _flirting?_ She certainly feels far too old for this, though Thorin makes her feel like a youngster, charismatic when he chooses to be and dragging enough blood to her cheeks she feels a permanent blush coming on.

"Y-yes," she replies, hastily taking a gulp of ale and pointedly ignoring the little burn as she swallows. He remains silent, observing her 'neath his lashes, and she fiddles with the hem of her overcoat. 

"A silly question," she begins, generally curious, and he hums in acknowledgement, "That archway, the runes. What does it say?"

Thorin gives the arch way an upside-down look, baring his pale throat, the column of flesh strong even under his tunic. She stares for a moment, then follows his gaze to the runes.

He grins, then pulls an amused face. " _Durin the Deathless shall never rest,_ " he quotes, with a quirk of an eyebrow.

She stifles a chuckle, and he adds, "Incredibly inventive, I know."

"Well, we certainly do not have such inventive literature upon our archways in the Iron Hills," Dálnia says, bemused. She takes up a biscuit and chews thoughtfully.

"Ah, the Iron Hills. Has much changed?" Thorin asks, "I have not visited for some time."

"Not really," she replies, honestly, "The marketplaces fare well due to the frequent visits by Men during their travels. It is far, though, further than I remember. My possessions will take some time to arrive."

"Oh?" Thorin says, and immediately the air becomes fragile, the repercussions of her words begin to sink in. She did not plan on informing Thorin that she has accepted his request for marriage on the first day, though she finds herself happily glad she's done so, his face is unguarded and open for the first time this evening. 

"Uh, yes. I've decided to accept your offer," she says, nervously, flushing, "If you'd have me," she adds with a smile.

"Dálnia, are you certain?" Thorin asks, genuinely taken aback, but his eyes are warm and fond. She suppresses a shiver.

"Of course," she states, finishing the last of her ale.

Thorin reaches for her, carefully, avoiding the many headpieces and hair clasps and cups her cheek. He presses a kiss to the stubble there, Dálnia feels herself flush warmly. He lingers close for a moment, she shuts her eyes and breathes in the smell of him, the smell of her King, the smell of her future husband. Her heart clenches at the thought, thudding away erratically, and reaches up and lays a tentative hand upon his bicep.

They are aged, aged in both years and experience, and she will not shy away from such affection. Many save themselves for marriage, the art of being whole, what have you, but over time, over the years that have gone by, such a gift is no longer present. Thorin has seen Dwarves, and Men alike, and would be no fool. There will be consummation, of course, and she will not deny her future husband is a startlingly handsome Dwarf and therefore, she will not deny herself a kiss.

She turns her head and presses her lips to his own, a soft touch, nothing more. He doesn't respond, and for a moment, she scolds her own brashness, leaning back to pull away, when his other hand reaches up and holds her close. His lips part, drawing her bottom lip between his own and sucking it to tenderness. It surprises her, rips a soft moan straight from her throat, so she opens to him, reaching forward and caressing the back of his neck, drawing him closer. He shifts, aligning them perfectly and, _oh_ , it has been a long time, she groans as his tongue slides -

"Uncle!"

They spring apart, mainly out of shock rather than embarrassment. Fili and Kili stand in the doorway, probably searching for Thorin in hopes he hasn't gone missing, bless their young minds, she hasn't killed him. Her hand falls from his neck and settles on his forearm.

Thorin glares fiercely at his nephews, close to seething, when Fili speaks.

"Er... sorry, My Lady..."

"We were just, uh - "

"You were just, what?" Thorin asks testily. Dálnia smiles at the boys, flustered by their kiss. Kili gapes from the doorway.

"We were to show Dálnia to her chambers for the evening," Fili manages, clenching his hands around his fur nervously, Thorin's gaze piercing through them for the interruption.

"Ah," he says, "Of course, it is late."

"Yes, Uncle," Kili hastens to agree, nodding.

"I think you will find I can show Dálnia her guest chambers, thank you," Thorin dismisses, sending them off, pointedly ignoring their chuckling and whooping as they return to the party halls. Dálnia smirks when she hears them, their happy cries of, Uncle's getting married!

"Brats," Thorin snorts.

She chuckles, smothering her laughter with a hand. He, too, laughs under his breath, eyes crinkling at the corners with mirth. He makes a fine picture like this, shoulders relaxed, his body language is calm, easy and trusting. She smiles at him, broadly, and he squints at her in mock suspicion, rising to a stand.

"I do believe I am to show you your chambers," Thorin says, leading her through the many passages and corridors. He acknowledges his own chambers with a dismissive hand, then to her guest bed chambers. 

"Thank you," she says, resting a hand on the door knob and turning to face him. 

"No, Dálnia, thank _you_ ," he tells her seriously, though his eyes are friendly. He leans forward and kisses her quickly, beard brushing softly against her chin and cheeks. When he pulls away, she cups a hand to his cheek and rubs her thumb over the expanse of a sharp cheekbone. His eyes flutter shut at the touch, leaning into her caress. Her stomach does a silly flip, he is probably affection starved, with having a reputation as fierce as his, surely indulging in pleasures of the flesh is something he has not enjoyed, nor been allowed for some time.

"I will see you tomorrow," he says, and waits for her to enter her chambers. She leans against the door heavily once it is shut, chuckling when she hears Thorin yelling at his nephews to _let go_ and _get off!_

\--

End Chapter One


	2. Chapter 2

Coming up to a week later, Dálnia watches with amusement as the city bustles with activity. Erebor is connected by a main courtyard, unseen when arriving from the front of the Kingdom. The courtyard has no roof, though it is an enjoyable place to be, the refreshing breeze is crisp coming straight from the mountain. She sits on the highest balcony, overlooking the stone setting with interest, sometimes catching glimpse of rich fabric no doubt belonging to either her or Thorin's royal clothes.

Fili comes to her, surprisingly, and talks to her as though she's known him years. It fills her with warmth, his friendliness is so very charming, polite and charismatic like his uncle. She softly questions after his father, expecting his attitude to change to closed-off, but she is not left disappointed. Fili describes his father as a friend of Thorin, she smiles to herself knowingly, a friend of Thorin would be a suitable candidate for his baby sister in his eyes. He was blonde too, just like Fili himself, not unexpectedly. Hili, his name was, a noble dwarf though not in riches, an adept soldier who unfortunately was slain in battle like so many of their kin.

A maid designated to her for the time being stops by and offers them a plate of biscuits and sweet rolls. Fili perks up even more so, accepting the platter gratefully. His kindness surprises her even when she knows it shouldn't. Kili bounds up, perhaps looking for his partner in crime, smiling politely at her, wishing her a good afternoon.

"Have you met Mister Dwalin?" Kili asks around a mouthful of sweet roll.

Fili rolls his eyes at his brother's poor manners.

"I have," she replies, pouring herself a cup of tea once realising the assorted packages on the platter were tea bags. "A good friend of your uncle then?" She asks conversationally, despite already knowing.

"Bodyguard," Fili says with a crooked grin, "And life long friend."

"Weapons master," Kili adds eagerly, scratching at his stubble, still weak of beard.

Dálnia opens her mouth to speak but is cut off by Kili's cry of, "Uncle! Mister Dwalin!" The pair, just visibly seen by her eye, are crossing the courtyard, apparently back from whatever errands have kept them busy. Thorin acknowledges them with a jerk of his head, Dwalin raises his hand in greeting. They are intercepted by several others, caught amongst tailors and seamstresses, Balin and advisors.

She waits for them to join their small party patiently, smiling softly when Thorin ducks his head and kisses her cheek.

"Hello," she greets, Fili moving aside so Thorin can take a seat next to her. Dwalin dips his head in acknowledgement, offering a soft My Lady, and surprises her when he reaches over them and ruffles Fili and Kili's hair, then her own. There's an underlining affection in the rough-housing, protest easily seen on the tip of Thorin's tongue as his enormous palm ruffles her braids and headpieces. It forces a laugh out of her, taming whatever Thorin wished to have said, barely managing to stifle a yelp when Dwalin chortles and grabs him, knuckles rubbing harshly against his scalp.

"I am your King!" Thorin wheezes and squirms around in his seat like a child. He gains the upper hand by grabbing a handful of Dwalin's remaining hair and tugging, vengeance is sweet she muses, quickly grasping onto his elbow to steady him so he does not fall. Their spat becomes friendly after some harsh pulling and grabbing, only to be interrupted by Dís.

"Mahal above, this is the real reason why you can't get a wife without help," Dís snaps gustily, "You can be so childish!"

"Ma!" Kili calls, seemingly more offended than Thorin at the insult.

Dís ignores him and turns to Dálnia.

"Dresses have been made for you, My Lady. Perhaps, you would like to see them."

She rises to a stand, bidding them a good day, and allows herself a soft touch to the back of Thorin's neck, under the fall of his long hair. A simple caress, really, lingering at his nape with a strong thumb to the warm skin. There is no tension under her palm she notices with glee, and removes her hand so she does not get carried away.

\--

Her dress has been designed before any of Thorin's formal wear, aware their garments must match accordingly. She is able to sneak a quick peak at her future husband's robes, speechless at the sheer skill, the detail is extraordinary considering the speed of planning.

He will be clad in mostly black, unlike her soft creams and peach - at her request, wearing vivid white is certainly not happening - the fur, too, shall also be black in traditional style, quite alike his usual pelt. Tunic, pants and boots are black also, finely decorated. The robe that catches her eye is his insignia chain mail, adorned kindly with diamonds of steel, and where his everyday armour shows traces of blue, this piece is dyed green to match her head piece, the colour a favourite of hers.

"Do you like it?" Dís asks, standing at her side, examining the cuffs closely.

"I do," Dálnia replies, running a hand over the soft fur. "He will look exceptional."

Dís snorts heartily, but nods in kind.

She is beckoned over to the far tables, where several types of veils lay neatly, all studded prettily with gems and emeralds. She runs a finger over the workmanship, focusing on a favourite.

"I like this one," Dálnia says, holding it up and examining it for a long moment then placing it upon the crown of her head, grimacing slightly at its weight. A hearty piece indeed, surprising her with its mass, the long delicate fabric attached sweeps nicely over her shoulders.

She tries on the main garment she believes suitable for the wedding, the bodice is firm, a snug fit along her bust and waist but it compliments her figure nicely. Falling in waves of gossamer fabric, stopping just at the toe of her boots, which look particularly out of place compared to her dress. There are small stitches running through the entire piece, she squints at it in question, then realises it is Thorin's crest. A nice addition, indeed.

"My brother will take care of you," Dís says suddenly, startling Dálnia out of her thoughts, having forgotten she was there.

She nods, slanting her a smile, "Of course."

Dís taps their foreheads together and takes her leave, only stopping when Dálnia quickly adds, "I will take care of him, Dís. I promise."

"I know," Dís agrees, eyes warm, "He needs it."

Dálnia does not doubt her wisdom. Thorin has lost much in his life, family being the most precious, ripped away from him due to warfare and greed. Should he have nightmares of the sort, she becomes worried, hoping, he would trust her entirely to allow her to take care of him. She is no fool, she knows Thorin is a tempestuous and hot-headed Dwarf naturally, and trust does not come naturally to him.

\--

The wedding will commence today, she expected to be nervous or anxious or something of the sort, but finds herself swept away with the happiness that radiates from the people of Erebor. She walks alongside him as they wander through the busy marketplaces close to Dale, smiling often when villagers welcome her warmly. Thorin says little, reserved as much, though happy enough to indulge in questions sent their way regarding their marriage.

"Will you have an heir of your own?" An elderly Dwarf asks, her face is kind with age and her hair grey.

Thorin gives Dálnia a side glance, as though letting her make such a choice alone.

"Most likely," Dálnia says, ignoring the flutter in her stomach at the words, "A family is something we all cherish, is it not?"

"Of course, My Lady," the woman agrees, hesitating for a moment, then laying a tenderly hand upon Thorin's forearm. "Your father would be so proud, my King."

Ah, _Thrain_. The very same who held their people's secrets so close to his chest, he died with them in the dungeons of Dol Guldur, never once buckling under the pressures of his torture, managing to hang on to the key and map of Erebor even as he lost his mind. Little is known of the fate befallen upon Thrain, son of Thror, and as Queen, she will see such strength cherished, spoken of often when Dwarflings are schooled, and soon enough his face carving shall join the likes of Durin at the main gate.

"That is kindness," Thorin says, turning away, his voice low and soft with grief.

"An honourable man," Dálnia says, smiling softly when Thorin looks at her with such grateful eyes, as though he was not expecting her to be aware of this. "He will be remembered very much so, very soon. His suffering shall not go unrecognised."

The woman smiles broadly at them both, "You will make a great Queen, My Lady." She introduces herself to her newest customers, leaving them alone.  
"Dálnia," Thorin says suddenly, "Thank you."

She cannot help herself. She cups his cheeks, her thumbs following the line of his beard, dropping lower and running down the beard attachment at the cusp of his chin. She tightens the braid there, very aware she is indulging in a very intimidate act in public, but finds she cares not. He exhales quickly at her affection, and tilts his head in silent question.

Oh, how she wants a kiss. Her eyes fall heavily on the swell of his lip and decides - why not? Bracing herself on his forearms for leverage, he is a tall Dwarf by common standard, forcing her on her tip-toes and presses a chaste kiss to his lips, then ducks away.

He doesn't allow her to go very far, though, looping a heavy arm around her waist and holding her close, his other hand tilting her head up to ease the way and kisses her with forcefulness that leaves her breath caught in her chest. A lovely kiss, his tongue curls around hers and runs over the roof of her mouth, dragging a dizzying spike of lust down her spine.

They pull away once air becomes a must, becoming acutely aware the entire marketplace is staring at them. She coughs, flustered at the attention but Thorin continues to walk along, forcing her into action, fingers itching to hold him, hug him, what have you, but ignores the fleeting desire unspooling in her chest. Mahal above, just a _kiss_ , and she is weak at the knees.

\--

"I saw Dálnia and Uncle Thorin kissing today!" Kili bellows over the dining table, face alight with glee, sounding every bit like he's caught them in the act. She bites her tongue, because really, they weren't being particularly secretive, considering.  
"And?" Thorin shoots back, "Am I not allowed to kiss my future wife?"

Kili says nothing, cheeky grin seemingly a permanent thing on his face.

"In the middle of the market!"

"Shut up, Kili," Fili scolds, refilling his glass, though he is trying to suppress a smile and failing miserably.

"Well," Thorin says, and cheekiness seems to be a family trait, as he adds, "You will be scandalised should Dálnia and I decide to have children."

The pair scrunch their faces up in disgust, the very thought of their Uncle having sex seems enough to silence them. For now. 

Fili smiles happily, "Will you? Have children, I mean."

"Possibly," Dálnia says, surprising herself, "If I can." 

Images of the little boy and his mother at the playground in the Iron Hills weighs heavily on her mind. Not entirely sure why, but seeing that connection, the love teaming from the Dwarfling has motherhood settling deep in her chest. She never thought twice about having children, assuming her time had passed, but now, well, it's something to think about.

She remembers the elderly lady in the market, who's eyes gleamed at her words when she suggested they have children together. It seems everyone wishes Thorin to have a family of his own flesh and blood, and also seem determined for Dálnia to be the very person to give him such a gift.

Kili looks confused, written all over his brow, "If you can?"

Dálnia ponders over her words, carefully. She certainly doesn't want to give the lad too much information about how the female reproductive system tires itself as women age. Not completely oblivious with women as Fili has mentioned some interest in a lass whose family owns some successful food stores, and although not ready to marry, he seems quite taken with her. Kili, on the other hand, is still happy to play pranks on his Uncle or mother, caring little about the girls who coo at him as he passes.

"I am getting a bit older, Kili," She clarifies, deciding less information is better, "Things don't work as easily as they would, say, if I was your age."

"Oh," Kili replies, satisfied with that. Fili, on the other hand says, "It would be so good to have a cousin. A little one around."

Thorin smirks, "I have no objections to trying."

Dálnia laughs agreeably, lips quirking to a smirk when Thorin winks at her.

"Oh, _Mahal_ ," Kili groans, "Uncle, don't put us off our food."

"Don't be mean, that's not very nice to Lady Dálnia," Fili hastens to soothe whatever insult she was not offended by.

"Just Dálnia is fine," she insists, returning their smile with one of her own.

The group fall into easy conversation, with Thorin nodding where necessary. She runs her eyes over him, as she does often, pondering so deeply only an Orc could chase her from her thoughts. When did she become so... wifely? Dálnia prides herself on her ability to perform every task she accomplishes as good as man, and although childbirth and childbearing is no easy feat, she wonders, what is it about Thorin that makes her want these things?  
He is a kind Dwarf, generous when he pleases and shows pleasant hospitality to his visitors. He is a fair King, and understands the meaning of labour and hard work from his days as a poorer man. Family orientated to his very bones, fiercely protective of his sister like any older brother should be.

Perhaps, it's when she makes him laugh, it touches his eyes as well as his smile. Perhaps, it's when she caresses his cheek and holds his arm close to her own, he is grateful, and cherishes her affection. She feels welcome in his life, as his wife, as his Queen, as the future mother of his children. And that, well. That's something she's never experienced.

\--  
"Braid your hair, brat!"

"No! You cannot make me!"

It's their wedding day, today, and she's eager for it to be over with. Not to be ungrateful of course, however, the clothes she's wearing alongside the headpiece - she's certain is heavy enough it's crushing her skull - is making things very uncomfortable and _hot_. She's not afraid to admit, upon seeing her reflection in the mirror, was taken by surprise at how pretty she looked, although swimming under the amount of decoration plastered all over her robes and veil.  
Thorin's heirs look splendid, clad in their best robes and armour, coloured accordingly, some braided too. Dís attacks Kili's hair with the same ruthlessness as she did the entire wedding, banishing the brush around like an axe ready for war. Her youngest dodges and dives away from her, while her eldest is calm and awaiting instruction from his mother.

"You look nice," Dwalin says from her left.

She assumes he's coming from her left, the headpiece is so heavy and so fiercely jewelled she's too scared to jostle about, in case it shall fall. She snorts at the compliment, kind enough, even as she's heard nothing but _beautiful_ and _amazing_.

"Thank you," she responds, taking a quick look at his change of dress, and is entirely unsurprised when he is doting his usual armoury and weapons. A true bodyguard, indeed, unwilling to take any chances at being unarmed around strangers, as Bard and Thranduil and many of their own people have been invited to attend. She has been told a friend of Thorin as been invited, named Bilbo, whom she has yet to meet.

"It's time!" Kili cries, ecstatic, grabbing Fili by the arm and stepping through the curtain and into the hall where no doubt, Thorin and their guests await them. She takes a deep breath and walking through the curtains a long moment later, smoothing her hands over her gown even though it's hardly crinkled.

Her heart pounds in her chest with excitement and belated nerves, quickly grabbing Thorin's wedding band, bracelet and hair clasps before she too steps through the curtain.

 _Fuck_ , she curses inwardly, there are a lot of people here. She becomes aware of her surroundings tenfold, worried with every step she will embarrass herself and trip or something equally humiliating, keeps her head down until she reaches Thorin, who stands patiently alongside another elderly Dwarf holding some parchment. Her hands shake as she holds his gifts in her palms.

An elderly man reads the oaths they are to fulfil, which they murmur softly to one another in Khuzdul, exchanging their gifts. She nearly jumps out of her skin when Thorin grasps her wrist and clamps a golden bangle around it, blushing despite herself as he clasps the hair beads amongst her braids. His strong fingers brush over her collarbones and he loops the final piece - a necklace - around her neck, pressing a lingering touch to the pendant as it sits above the swell of her bosom. She manages to do the same, Thorin helps by crouching somewhat to meet her level so the necklace locks around his neck, then the Dwarf requests they kiss.

_Easy enough._

Here comes the problem: she can't even turn her head to kiss him. Feeling something like a fool, she peers up at him in the hopes he'll understand her current conundrum. It startles a bark of laughter out of him, dragging a chuckle out of her in turn, even as their party and guests gape in horror, and, well, it would look awful from their perspective wouldn't it? The King going in for a kiss and laughing in his bride's face?

He cranes his neck and crouches again, stooping so they are at the same height, and kisses her sweetly, soft little pecks, once, twice, thrice, then pulls away. She doesn't chase the contact though she wishes to, her hands clenching and unclenching from where she has rested them on his narrow hip.

"My Queen," Thorin calls, loud baritone echoing through the large trumpets on either side, so their most far away guests can hear. "Your Queen of Erebor!"

\--

end chapter two


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Terribly sorry about the delay in this chapter. I have had some extremely difficult health issues to overcome. I wish to thank all of you for your kind messages regarding my health, I am improving greatly, hence this chapter. The cancer is still present, though far less extreme and I have been able to enjoy Christmas with my family. Thank you for your patience.

Dálnia is relieved when she is given the chance to change out of her heavy wardrobe into a far simpler dress. The tables are laid out with different, less jewelled dresses, though each have the elaborate stitching of Thorin's crest interwoven in each of them. She smiles, they are all a kindly shade of green, made of fine fabric. She removes her royal headress after some difficulty, careful to avoid pulling out any of her hair as she swaps to a golden crown similar to Thorin's own, though a far more feminine touch.

Walking over to the mirror, she looks at her reflection with deep interest. Here she stands, married, a Queen of a Dwarven Kingdom, and Thorin Oakenshield's wife. It stirs a flutter in her chest, knowing she will be beside him until they part their ways. It comforts her, surprising her in its simplicity.

She leaves the dressing room in a rush, not willing to be absent from the party too long. She notes with a wry smile the people of Erebor have grown in number since her arrival a short fortnight ago. Hundreds of people are seated, as many dance to the cheery music played kindly by trained musicians, some already indulging in too much ale. Elves and Men alike fill the tables, their previous spats seemingly forgotten, even if that may be for one evening.

"Lady Dálnia!" Comes Fili's voice from the royal party table, sitting alongside Thorin as he should be, elaborately dressed in shades of gold and brown. His young face is full of joy. She looks for his brother in kind, Kili dances happily with several lasses, who are all eager to be in his presence. His movements are slightly clumsy, but enjoyable enough, the lasses that surround him care little for his misplaced feet.

"Ah, there you are," she acknowledges, smiling broadly at her husband, and lays a hand on Balin's shoulder as she does. 

"You are both required to dance," Balin states, smirking when Thorin's lip curls in annoyance. He stands anyway, walking around the table and joining Dálnia from where she stands. 

"Do you know how to dance, my King?" She asks, bemused. 

"Unfortunately, I do," Thorin agrees, taking her hand and leading her to the centre of the dance space. Upon seeing their King and Queen, those who dance take their leave and sit in their respective seats, waiting kindly for them to begin.

"You have to sing, Thorin!" Dwalin supplies loudly over the music, practically brimming with mischief, "Don't want you to forget that, do we?"

A fierce glare is sent Dwalin's way, and she chuckles. Thorin moves into the correct stance, leading her slowly through the moves, grasping her waist and shoulders kindly. The music is soft, fit for a royal wedding. She does not miss the cooing and adoring faces of the young lasses as they pass them, knowing all to well they wish for marriage themselves.

An unexpected silence falls over the hall, music stopping. Dálnia peers around in question, before realising; Thorin must sing. He smiles down at her tightly, looking every bit like a thief ready to run, and opens his mouth and sings.

She staggers for a brief moment. What on Earth - She was not expecting a voice like this. Mesmerised like a love struck lass, she becomes increasingly aware of her footing, in the hopes not to bowl them over with a newfound spout of clumsiness. She's disappointed when he stops, no longer required to sing along, and definitely doesn't continue for anyone else's sake. Thorin leads her off the dance floor and kisses her quickly, whisked away by advisors.

Fili bounds over to her, eagerly, and takes her hand. They, too, are required to dance also, though his hands sit differently that to that of her husband. His hair is braided kindly with extravagant beads and soft jewels.

"Such a marvellous wedding," she compliments. Dálnia is not used to such elaboration in royal events, as the Iron Hills is a dutiful stronghold, required only to provide military strength to the Royal Kingdom. She finds her father, sitting next tot he newly returned Thorin, and her raises his glass, a silent toast to her newfound marriage. Dálnia bites back a rude chortle, her father is _soldierly_ at best, and to see him wearing such detailed robes is an unfamiliar sight.

"Of course!" Fili chirps, "You look so pretty!"

"Thank you," she replies, pressing her forehead against his briefly, before letting him part to find his sibling. Kili is not required to dance with her, though the dark-haired dwarf skips his way over and smiles broadly, full of teeth. She laughs genuinely and allows him to lead her around the dancefloor.

"I see you have several young lasses interested in your person," she compliments. Kili's cheekbones grow a rudy pink and he ducks his head, letting out an embarrassed snicker.

"Ma would be proud," he replies, and bows deeply when they part, too. Dálnia waves at Dís, who fusses with Thorin's hair with a brush. Her sister-in-law rolls her eyes in Thorin's direction, but waves back in kind.

\--

"Bilbo Baggins, at your service, My Lady," the Hobbit introduces. Ah, so this is Thorin's friend. She's never seen a Hobbit before, only heard about them in books and lore, their homes very far from her own. Shorter than a Dwarf, though not by much, barefoot and softer in body, kind in face and voice. Fili and Kili have both eagerly spoken of their adventures with their Hobbit friend.

"Dálnia is fine," she replies, and smiles. "It's an honour to meet you, Bilbo Baggins." She gestures to the seat next to her with a hand, "Join me, friend of the West."

Bilbo smiles, and ducks his head in politeness, before rummaging through his own elaborate clothing, drawing out a sturdy homemade pipe and presses it to his lip.

"Old Toby," he offers by handing over his pouch. "The best pipe weed in Middle Earth. Your husband would agree."

She fills her pipe and takes a deep drag. The smoke fills her lungs pleasantly, the sweeter taste taking her surprise - a stark difference to her own far bitter weed.

"Very nice," she exhales slowly. "Thank you."

"Dwarvish customs always take me by surprise," he comments, and Dálnia raises an eyebrow at him in question. Bilbo grins, "With their food and drink and celebration, you see. Us Hobbits are quiet folk, expect for small occasions. There are so many people here."

"I see you have met my wife," comes Thorin's drawl behind her, who plucks her pipe from her hand and thieves a drag himself. She sends a mock glare his way, before he returns it, fingers brushing over hers as he does.

His cheeks are warm with ale, flushed slightly, hair swept over his shoulders and freshly combed, courtesy of his sister. 

"You look happy," Bilbo comments with a sly grin. 

Thorin gives him a small smile as he sits next to Dálnia. Out of kindness, she offers him her pipe this time. He accepts it gratefully and brings it to his lip before replying, "I am."

Dálnia ignores the flutter in her chest at the words. Reaching over, she grasps her hand in his, rubbing her thumb over the broad knuckles. Barely aware of the conversation fluttering between Bilbo and Thorin, she observes the rings on his fingers. She notices a finer make with a crest unknown to her - she is very well aware of what Thorin's crest looks like, as it adorns his clothing and hers too - and runs a fingernail over the tiny engravings.

"My father's," Thorin supplies, startling her out of her thoughts. She lifts her head and meets his smile with one of her own, though Thorin's is tight with grief.

"Thrain?" Bilbo asks around a cloud of smoke.

Thorin hums. "Aye."

The Hobbit's mouth tightens, "May he rest in peace."

"My father's circumstance fills me with much regret," Thorin replies, after a long moment. He stares straight ahead, avoiding the gaze of Dálnia and Bilbo both, "To learn of his passing, and the things he suffered weighs heavily on my heart."

Dálnia loops their fingers together, "Of course, Thorin. He was your father."

Thorin exhales gustily through his nose and offers her a smile, "This is a happy day for me. I should not spoil it with such melancholy thoughts."

It grows late, and Dálnia's heart thumps with anticipation as Thorin leads her to his chambers. Cheeks flushed with ale, she feels like a young lass, all sweaty at the palms and nervousness making her mouth dry. Thorin grins, somewhat cheekily, over his shoulder and opens the door for her.

\--

She feels so very bare, laid out on the bed before him, though she does not shy away from his gaze. Vivid blue eyes run over her flesh kindly, appreciatively.

His hands follow the swell of her full breast, thumbs running under their shape, fingernails softly scratching the sensitive skin and forcing a shudder out of her. Goose flesh rises on her skin out of anticipation; the room is very warm, now.

He presses a kiss to her sternum, beard brushing against her breasts as he does. She runs a hand through his long raven hair, tugging lightly when his caress tickles her. He huffs a laugh, the gust of warm breath rushing over her chest and nipples, that tighten with interest.

Thorin drags his tongue over her left nipple, swirling around it delicately, then sucking softly. She moans, back arching into his mouth, the sweet, delicate suckle dragging heat to the apex of her thighs. His weight is firm between her legs, not heavily so, as he braces his weight off of her so he doesn't crush her. She cups his chin and kisses him deeply, forcing him close. His hips rolls against her groin deliciously at they kiss.

His tongue is hot, and slick as his mouth descends upon her sex, slipping inside briefly before sliding up her folds and suckling at her clit. Oh, oh, oh, it feels so good she feels almost terrible as her thighs lock over his shoulders and hold him there, a silent plea to keep going, do not stop, oh, please, do not stop.

Thorin's ministrations become more harsh, more fierce as her breathing becomes more strained, hips rutting to match his pace as his tongue laves at her clit, the pressure so great she's lost with it, thrashing against the mattress like an inexperienced tween. He moves with her, mouth never leaving her sex even as she tightens and bucks, orgasm spilling from her and leaving her breathless and sweaty against the pillows.

"Fuck," She manages, thighs trembling alongside him as he licks her sex until she pulls his face from her thighs, unable to take much more.

"Just - just a moment," she adds, pushing him back so he sits, cock erect and wet at the tip. She resists dragging it to her mouth, eager to please him with her body and slides into his lap with ease. She grasps the base of his cock to guide herself and sits upon him until sheathed, the glorious feeling of being filled forces her to dip her head, forehead pressing firmly against his.

"Dalnia, oh - " Thorin buries his face in her breast, panting.

"I will - " She cuts him off with a deep roll of her hips, "I will pull away - " Again, she silences him by sliding her tongue into his mouth, curling around his, "Dalnia, please."

His come splatters against her thigh as he climaxes, face heavy with pleasure. Dálnia's breath quickens at the sight, oh, what a sight to see - mouth dropped open, eyes fluttering shut, hands grasping her hips.

Sleep claims them both, too tired and weak from the exhausting day past. He curls around her and presses a sleep kiss between her shoulder blades.


End file.
